


keep them in your mason jars

by Druddigonite



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Childhood Trauma, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Meeting the Parents, in which i vaguely hint at bede's child trauma without much detail, mixed humor and angst in an absolutely awful brew, more exploration of empty nest syndrome than strictly necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Druddigonite/pseuds/Druddigonite
Summary: Gloria was an important business associate, who’d been kind enough to invite him back to her hometown. The least he can do is appear as a well-mannered young man to her mother.
Relationships: Beet | Bede/Yuuri | Gloria
Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855783
Comments: 15
Kudos: 56





	keep them in your mason jars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> [original ask here](https://druddigoon.tumblr.com/post/625650453032632320/bustin-thru-the-wall-of-ur-ask-box-can-i-get-me)

_Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline  
Like a row of captured ghosts over old dead grass  
Was never much but we made the most  
Welcome home_  
\- [Welcome Home, Son](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xoz-YIssgg4) by Radical Face

* * *

He’s been through worse, Bede reminds himself. 

And it is not _bad_ that he’s currently slotted between the champion and an unknown train passenger, legally boarded this time. Gloria had already dozed off, lulled by the steady jostling of the tracks, her head drooping onto her leather bag she held in her lap as he sat stiff and tense beside her.

(The train to Wedgehurst was packed, people who’d found jobs in the larger cities returning home to see family during the holidays. There was no upper-class seating—or lower class, for that matter—and the receptionist had refused Bede’s offer of paying for an entire row until Gloria noticed and scolded him for taking seats from other people.) 

It was so open, so public, and it made him feel more cornered than ever. 

Until they left, his parents had taught him wariness, that anyone could be a potential witness, a loose end. On the days where the orphanage caretakers would turn them loose and turn a blind eye on any bruises or cuts, he learned to carve his own place, fortified with walls so high no one would ever climb past it. After Stow-On-Side, sucked dry of assets and cast off and forgotten, the open roads taught him how to really _fight_.

This is different, and not. He’s seeing threat where there is none: the rustling of a man’s coat jacket as an attempt to conceal a knife, the shifting of another adjusting their seat like a snake coiling into action, ready to lunge and grab. A woman’s wandering gaze lingers on him and a still-sleeping Gloria; he has to resist the impulse to read it as aggression, to glare back in challenge. 

During the worst, he knew what to expect—could prepare to face the worst. 

Here, in the languid train car filled with strangers, heading toward strange land and strange moors, he is so wildly out of his element, doesn’t know what to do. 

"We are arriving at Wedgehurst station, our last stop for the day. Please stay seated until the train stops completely, and return any pokemon accompanying you back into their balls. Thank you for choosing Barraskewda Express."

People are starting to get up and file into the center aisle. He’s about to nudge Gloria awake when she stirs, wiping away a splotch of drool that had soaked into her bag. “Are we there yet?” 

“No, we’ve taken a detour and stopped at Unova.” 

“Yes, then.” She stretches as Bede stands up. He’s immediately jostled by the throng of bodies, pushing and shifting; someone accidentally elbowed him in his side, and he lets out a hiss before he can think better of it, whirling around. A small girl and her father are staring at him. The perpetrator is nowhere to be found. 

“Bede, hey, relax.” Gloria, eyes not fully open, gropes for him, hand latching on to his arm. The contact burns. “Wait for me, I need to re-check my stuff to see if it’s all here.”

She’s gently tugging and he relents, sits down on battered seats more hole than leather with a huff. “It’s all there, if someone dared to steal anything I would’ve noticed.” 

“ _Still_. My mum taught me it never hurts to check.” 

That, he can agree on.

* * *

Gloria’s mom was always a constant in her stories, recalled with the fondness she remembers quiet nights in the wild area, alone between the two of them and light without the weight of society. In a way, she is home to her as much as sprawling summer hills and autumn wheat harvests. 

( _I never knew my parents_ , he had told her when she asked for his, watched her recoil into herself before offering profuse apologies. They never had much time for him, never much money, until the day they filled his room to the brim with toys and a stolen solosis friend and left, so the police could break into their condo and find not two criminals but their young, terrified boy. 

In a way, he never did really know them.)

He lingers at the corner of the train station, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt in a windowpane’s reflection. He’d opted for a more business casual look, but it still put him heads and shoulders overdressed compared to the crowd.

No matter. He needed to make a good first impression. Ogling locals be damned. 

Gloria is one of those ogling locals. 

“Told you you could’ve dressed more casual. We’re on vacation, not a business trip.” She’s waiting for him on a bench at the edge of the town, wooden and wreathed with budding morning glories. It fits two, and she’s chosen to sit on the side. 

Bede looks away and remains standing. “This is how I usually dress.” Before she drops a comment about his usual attire, he changes the subject. “How far is Postwick from here?” 

She shoots him a face that plainly says _Opal’s-spare-XL-uniform-for-three-months_. “About ten kilometers south, just follow the dirt road that goes straight through the pastures. 

“Ten kilometersof following a dirt road?” The air was hot and humid, and already dampness was starting to cling to the nape of his neck. 

“We can always call a corvitaxi,” Gloria suggests, all cheek.

“Absolutely not.” She knows his track record with those. “I’ll walk you to your house as long as you don’t drag me on detours for berry trees.”

The walk was...nice. Roads are shorter when there’s someone beside you, he learns, and his companion had no shortage of stories to tell. There’s the old sitrus orchard with the broken swing, pastures dotted with wooloo like distant clouds, the tall oaks of the Slumbering Weald rising off in the distance. He pushes back at the bitter jealousy that rises to his throat, memories of dark walls and _hide in the closet, stay still stay silent don’t let them find you_. His hands—

—Fiddle with his hair instead, straighten his sleeves, smooth the creases of his pants. Gloria was an important business associate, who’d been kind enough to invite him back to her hometown. The least he can do is appear as a well-mannered young man to her mother. 

_And perhaps I can ask her if_ —

His train of thought stutters to a halt. Gloria, a couple metres ahead with a backpack full of pilfered berries, glances back in concern. “You okay?” 

He realises he’s stopped walking. “I’m fine. Must be nice growing up in the place you were born.” His idea of home had long been rendered null through repetition. 

“Not really, no.” Gloria says. “We actually moved here when I was younger, after my dad lost his life in the mines. Careless accident really; I’ve heard he was the reason they passed stricter regulations. Mum couldn’t afford to live there without him, so she found a cheap plot of land in Postwick and settled there. It wasn’t sunshine and rainbows—there wasn’t even a house here before we came—but she’s made this place into a home and I’ll always be proud of her for that.” 

She takes off her beret, fiddles with the rim. “Sometimes I don’t think she realises that. Sometimes I don’t think she realises that even though I’ve grown up, she can’t move on like she used to. When I left for the gym challenge, she cried just like she cried at my dad’s funeral. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past as much as what you make of the future, I heard on a roto-video once.” 

Typical of her, to take his thoughts and actions and make him eat them, nonchalant and offhand to the point where he cannot figure out for the life of him if it’s intentional or not. 

Yet he can’t be mad. She gives his words thought, and responds with genuine sincerity—not the false pity of his caretakers, not the _we appreciate your concerns_ of corporate reassurance—sometimes so small and vulnerable it’s a wonder how it hasn’t been crushed under the toe of someone’s boot. 

(But if there was anything he’s learned from his gym challenge, it’s what Gloria is stronger than she appears)

She’s led them down the backroads, a desire path off the main trail, barren except for the two of them between a sea of golden wheat. “It’s unnecessary to walk the entire trail,” he says, reaching for his pokeballs. 

Rapidash emerges, immediately curling his lip as his hooves sink into the dirt. Bede hoists himself up as he huffs, shaking clods of dust from the tufts on his legs. “Here, Rapidash can support two.” 

“Rapidash doesn’t look like he wants more weight.” 

“I’ll reward him with a grooming session if he makes it to your house.” He lays a hand on Rapidash’s head to still him. “This will be faster.” 

She shrugs before accepting his offered hand, mounting with more ease than expected for a trainer with no rideable pokemon. As if to answer his question, she remarks, “Huh, much easier than trying to climb on Crustle.” 

He pointedly ignores the press of heat as she leans closer. “I can’t believe you ride a boulder.” 

“He’s good with rocky areas and steep slopes. Can I sit in front? I know the roads.” 

“Absolutely not. This is my rapidash and the road is a straight line.” 

“It won’t be for long! It’s hidden too, you’ll have a hard time finding it.” 

“I think you’re underestimating my capability of finding spots few people know about. I’ve had plenty of practice.” 

She snorts; he can almost feel her roll her eyes behind him. “I’m sure you found all the homeless camps in Hammerlocke, but if you miss it I’m taking the reins.” 

“As if.”

* * *

“You should let me enter the house first,” Gloria says as she dismounts from her seat in front of Bede. 

“Why?” 

“Because I, uhm...” She mulls it over, gnawing at the corner of her lip. “I might’ve not mentioned I was bringing a guest. She worries too much on first impressions if I do. Call you once you’re good to go?”

He watches as her figure vanishes behind stone walls, dappled with lichen. The house is what can be described as a quaint, little one-floor thing with a small garden and a smokestack, partially reclaimed by the vegetation around it. It borders what he assumes is the Slumbering Weald, a tiny speck of civilization beyond old, ancient woods. 

A couple minutes later, she returns. 

“Sorry for making you wait.” Her cheeks are ruddier than usual, and she’s doing a poor job of avoiding his gaze. Odd. “Follow the dirt path, and watch out for the stairs.” 

Someone who he immediately recognised as Gloria’s mother was propping the door open, clad in overalls and boots that looked like they’d spent the entire day in the fields. She raises an eyebrow at his entrance on a slightly ragged rapidash wearing business casual, as if she were appraising a pokemon’s competitive viability.

“Hello, Miss Bauer. I’m sure your daughter’s already introduced me, but my name is Bede.” He dismounts and offers her his hand. "I am the current Ballonlea Gym Leader work closely with Champion Gloria to ensure the safety of Galar.”

Gloria’s mother hesitantly takes his hand, and they shake. “Hello! No need for the formality, you can call me Alice...current Gloria’s mother. Come in, come in! Please excuse the mess, I’m in the middle of the harvest season and my _lovely daughter_ forgot to mention we had guests.” 

“Mum…” Gloria groans behind him, and he has to bite down on his lip to stop a smile. 

“Hush. Do you like tea? I have black, green, earl grey, roseli...I believe we had some sitrus but I must’ve drank it all…” 

“I’m fine. Really.” Still unused to being invited into someone’s house, he scouts the area to distract himself. It was cluttered, yes, but well lived in—he can see houseplants reaching toward the window, a basket of produce for tonight’s dinner, the pencil scratches of what looks like a height chart on the wall. A munchlax with a graying muzzle waddles in, and he scratches behind its ears to distract himself. 

“You sure? No need to be modest nature.” She’s setting a kettle on the stove. “Glory, I’ll make yours with your favorite biscuits, okay?” 

“Yeah, thanks Mum.” 

He helps himself to the seat closest to the door, an old wooden chair that tenses under his weight. Alice was busying herself cleaning the kitchen counter, but he can feel her judgement poised over his head, picking apart his choices bone by bone. What if she knew all the things he’d said to her daughter during the gym challenge? Poison in his tea is not impossible. 

He selects his next words carefully. “I’ll have whatever Gloria’s having, if it’s not a bother.” 

“Not at all, plenty to go around.” 

There’s an awkward silence between the two of them, interrupted by the kettle’s intermittent _clicks_. He glances (only slightly desperately) to Gloria for help, only to find she’s nowhere in sight. Asshole must’ve wandered off when he wasn’t looking. 

“So,” Gloria’s mum starts, and he inwardly cringes because that’s never a good thing to hear in his situation, “My daughter talks about you plenty.” 

Loose arms, relaxed face, chin held high. Opal’s theatre lessons recite themselves in his memory as he pulls off what he hopes is a nonchalant shrug and not a shoulder seizure. “Good things, I hope? I’m her coworker, and work closely with her to manage the gym circuits in the region.” 

“Mmm yes, you’ve said that already. Just coworkers and nothing more?” 

“I-I...uh…” 

She leveled him with a stare, no-nonsense, like Oleana behind her mahogany office table. “My daughter talked about you during her gym challenge.” 

_Shit._

He braces himself for a wave of disapproval, but she hums and taps her fingers against the counter. “She used to text back almost every day, and I’d get pictures of her travels, of the places she visited and the pokemon she met. It all stopped after...Eternatus, was it? I only know she was involved, one way or another. Glory doesn’t like when it’s brought up, and I’ve stopped mentioning it around her.” 

“She doesn’t like mentioning it around me either.” He hates that he wasn’t there—that it wasn’t him facing Rose’s last stand, that he woke up late to the headlines of “DARKEST DAY AVERTED” plastered onto the Ballonlea Times, that every time he brings it up to Gloria she retracts, memories balled tightly into places he wouldn’t dare reach. 

“That’s my daughter. Growing up and moving away.” She takes a seat across from him, leans back into it; smiles a bitter smile he’s seen before, on someone younger and without the crows feet that were beginning to crinkle around her eyes. “Feels like yesterday she’d smuggled a grubbin inside and fed it scraps from under her bed. Nearly gave me a heart attack when I went to clean her room.” 

“So watch out for her, will you? She’s outgrowing her old mum that lives in an old town and doesn’t understand what these newfangled gym challenges the youngsters are talking about these days. Glory says you’ve hurt her, once. But she’s been writing about how her training sessions with you have been in the Glimwood and her trips all over the region and—” 

She stops, silence hanging like dust motes illuminated by the waning sun. 

(Annette had two sons, Bede remembers; she’d told him so after he made the decision to release his gothitelle and reuniclus in hopes of them finding a better life.)

“—She trusts you, and I trust her to know the right thing. So I trust you. Don’t betray it.” 

“Wouldn’t dare to. Gloria would give me he—a rough time if she found out.” He knows the Champion well enough to guess who she’d choose in that situation. “She talks of you frequently. Wants you to move on.” 

“Mum!” Speak of the Giratina. Gloria’s head appeared from the staircase. “Did ever I show you the video of Bede’s speech in the finals?” 

“You don’t have to show her. It’s nothing particularly interesting.” He quickly interjects. 

“Is it? Show me then.” Gloria nods eagerly, taking out her roto-phone to scroll through her photo albums with the beginnings of a grin on her face. She’d had it downloaded, to “laugh at him even in the wild area”, in her words. 

Bede muffles his groan into his hands.

* * *

The tea is okay. The kettle on the stove has faded into background noise, the soft hiss of flames losing its edge. It’s not acceptance, not really, but it’s small and begrudging and more than he expects. 

( _And is this family?_ a smaller part of him wonders, a part of him still hiding in dark closets full of stolen pokeballs, mouth-closed-eyes-wide-don't-move-don't-cry while the police conducted their searches—crumpled into temporary foster homes and bit at the first promise of a golden watch and a promise of control.) 

(It is strange. And something no ironed dress shirts or formal introductions or lessons in managing interpersonal relationships can prepare for. But somehow, Bede thinks, he doesn’t mind at all)


End file.
